POETS AND POETRY, MR. PHILLPOT1'S.•
THEM is undoubtedly something very attractive about Mr. Eden Phillpotts' work. It is always difficult to analyse charm, • As the Wind Blow. By Eden Phillpalks. London • Elkin Mathews. pa. net.]
but in this instance the effect of the attraction is that we are apt to like poems that have very palpable faults. We are, for example, too often conscious of the rhyme in its capacity of "rudder." It is clear, for instance, that in the case of the chieftain that it was more than a happy chance for the poet that " hill " (frowning) rhymed with " will " (resistless). But we forgive a human weakness for the sake of lines like the following :—
" . . . May his dog's ears discern the rain Hissing over the heather, or tell if the purple stain
From a cloud-shadow dims his grey stone ? When the ponies run, Can he mark the dull drammin' g above of their unshod feet ? "
Several of the pleasantest poems in the present volume have already appeared in our columns, and with these we do not propose to deal. Our readers have already had an opportunity of judging them for themselves. There is something taking in the imagery of a poem called "The Hunting"
When red sun fox steals down the sky, And darkness dims the heavens high,
There leap again upon his tracks The eager, starry, hunting packs "-
and a little set of verses called "The Puddle "—the poet staring at the sky falls into a puddle which is doing the same thing—
is fresh and delightful. The most ambitious poem in this volume is one entitled "Tiger," of which a great deal is really admirable. It is written rather in the manner of The Bull, and but for occasional lapses into the commonplace (which in this more elaborate work the reader is inclined to resent unusually) is a striking essay in a style with which we do not as a rule associate Mr. Phillpotts " He slouched with loose, low shamble from the glade,
And as he flung his feet along the track, Machine-like glided each great shoulder-blade Under his pelt. He stopped and scratched his back Against a stump ; then sat a little while, Curling his ring-straked tail around his paws, Yawning with a gigantic, sleepy smile That showed the ruddy gulf between his jaws. The fangs were white and sound, for he was young—
A male of four full years, in all his pride, Perfect, lean, knit of rubber and steel, and strung With sinews taut ; content and satisfied, Since the twice five great, crooked daggers set Deep in his awful pads have never failed To win his belly all it wanted yet—."
Mr. Phillpotts' tiger really does "burn," and he has managed to give the reader a sense of fear of the blind powers of the creature. It is a pity that the poem ends with a "shilcar." It gives the reader the feeling of having gone to sleep in Fairyland and awoken in Simla. We hope that Mr. Phillpotts will continue to work in a style which obviously has promise for him.
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